


A Little Introduction to the State of Things

by Notasmuch



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-07
Updated: 2011-11-07
Packaged: 2017-10-25 19:53:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/274129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notasmuch/pseuds/Notasmuch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mainly angsty PWP between Hawkeye and Francis with a bit of Hawkeye having a thing for the priestly uniform.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Introduction to the State of Things

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kink_bingo, prompt "uniforms/military" though in this case the focus is on the cross more than anything.  
> Title taken from Reverend and the Makers.  
> Read by [anemptymargin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anemptymargin) but not really beta-ed so feel free to complain if you find typos.

Hawkeye let the door of Father Mulcahy's tent close behind him with a tap. The Father was standing at the foot of the bed, with his back turned to the door. His head was bowed but he nodded, saying, "Just a moment."

Hawkeye pushed his hands into his pockets and waited patiently, observing. This was only the third time since they met that he had seen Mulcahy wearing the collar. Normally his Chaplain’s bars and the silver cross on black shirt were clear enough indicators of who he was.

But, a high-brow visiting General wanted a proper Catholic mass and that's what he got. So now, Mulcahy was wearing his collar and a black shirt and underneath it, Hawkeye noticed during the mass, was his cross, always present. Or, almost always.

Hawkeye knew that if there were a God, which this place made him doubt often enough, there was a great many things he would burn for. He wasn't sure where his occasional affair with a man would take him, the God he believed in was understanding, but sharing a bed with a priest, he was pretty sure wouldn't bring him good things. But all that faded in comparison to what he really wanted. What he thought about when alone and sometimes even when spreading his legs for the Father.

He hated thinking about it, hated wanting it. And yet, he had to sit in the back of the mess-church today with his legs crossed, as he watched _Father Mulcahy_ in his black and white, solemn even out of his depth.

Back in the tent, Mulcahy said a quiet "Amen" and turned to see who was there. Then he blushed.

Hawkeye was, as ever, charmed by this show of innocence. After his horrific childhood, the war and hundreds of confessions he’d heard, some of which would make the devil proud, Father Mulcahy still blushed shyly at the face of what they did.

Hawkeye reached out and ran his fingers gently down the stubbled cheek, and then saw Mulcahy's eyelashes flutter for a moment before his eyes closed.

With anyone else this was the moment when Hawkeye would crack a joke, but that was not how this nameless 'arrangement' worked. Anything he said that could be related to _The Real World_ would eventually come up in some regular mess tent conversation and then the Father would flinch like he had been stabbed and walk away ashamed. Hawkeye never wanted to do that again.

Mulcahy started unbuttoning his shirt - he always went for the religious paraphernalia first and there was nothing Hawkeye could do to distract him. But this time he closed his hands around Mulcahy's.

"Please," he leaned in, letting his nose touch the collar on the side of Mulcahy's neck. He took a deep breath, kissed it gently and let his fingers trail over the buttons in the front of the shirt. "Let me."

Mulcahy would never keep the collar on, but if this was as much as Hawkeye could get, he could live with it. The Father would never have to know how much it meant to him.

He undid the buttons slowly. Reverently, if he dared call it that. Kept his face pressed to Mulcahy's neck, breathing him in and feeling him tremble. No words were exchanged, they never were. There was something about talking, about Hawkeye's usual mode of operation, that didn't belong there, that made Mulcahy close up and retreat. Like he could only do this if he was convinced they were both someone else.

Maybe that was true. It would explain why he seemed to feel more comfortable naked than wearing even a scrap of his own clothes.

 _Who do you pretend I am?_ Hawk wanted to ask. _Who do you pretend you are?_

When the buttons were undone, Hawkeye stepped back, stopping himself from touching. _Not yet, not yet._

He pulled the white collar out, noticing how Mulcahy turned his face away, unable to watch.

His hand trembled and he wanted again to kiss the place where the collar was pressed against the skin, but didn't dare.

He put the collar on the desk gently and went back to pulling the shirt off.

Heat radiated from Mulcahy's skin even through the cloth, his breathing still steady and face turned away. That, too, was normal. A detachment, too much control, stiffness, like he doesn't care, like nothing at all is happening.

The first time he had noticed this, Hawkeye had shivered, about to jump away, convinced he had it all wrong, when Mulcahy's fingers grabbed his tightly. In all the time they spent together that was the only thing Mulcahy did without prompting, every time. He would grab Hawkeye's fingers and hold him there. His way of saying, "Please stay."

It broke Hawkeye's heart, a little.

Finally he dared touch the skin under the shirt, spread his fingers and opened the shirt wider, tugging it away and down, sliding almost casually over soft nipples.

Mulcahy's breath hitched - a victory.

When he reached the wrists he noticed he forgot to undo the cufflinks. Without realizing what he was about to do, without analyzing and thinking, he went down on his knees instead of lifting Mulcahy's hands up.

"Hawkeye!"

The word was raw, broken. He didn't dare look up.

Such a slow dance, every time, both sad and thrilling, complicated.

 _And yet,_ Hawkeye thought, as he undid the cufflink and didn't kiss the tips of Mulcahy's fingers, _over too soon._

Always hidden, one ear outside, listening, body ready to jump and hide or redress at any moment. Hawkeye wished... Well, no sense going there.

When the shirt was off he still didn't dare look up. Instead, in his eye line stood the tiny button at the top of Mulcahy's perfectly decent, Pope-approved trousers. A hedonist at heart, Hawkeye could only deny himself for so long. He pressed his lips over that button, his nose brushing the hair under Mulcahy's navel.

The "Hawkeye!" he got this time was breathless and then Mulcahy was on his knees too, urgent but waiting, still waiting. Hawkeye did it, like he always would, closed the gap between them and started the kiss, the first proof of what was really going on.

It wasn't until his fingers touched the nape of Mulcahy's neck that he realized that neither of them took the cross off. Still a priest, still holy, untouchable, and Hawkeye had to stifle his moan before Mulcahy realized what had happened.

He could barely concentrate on the kiss, his whole focus on the tiny part of his skin where his index finger met the chain of the necklace.

Still, when Mulcahy opened his mouth that smallest bit, he knew what to do. And when nervous fingers grabbed his other hand he knew to move closer, closer, until he was almost sitting on Mulcahy, his legs spread over strong thighs, so different to what he was used to, but needed like nothing before. Needed even more at that moment, with the heat of that cross pressing into his own chest. He risked drawing attention to it by moving and took his own shirt off. He was lucky; Mulcahy looked straight at him while he did it, like he wasn't sure what to do with so much skin.

Then Mulcahy bent his head down and pressed a kiss against Hawkeye's collarbone. It was sweet, for a moment, and then passionate and needy, accompanied by a soft sound from Mulcahy's throat that Hawkeye couldn't deny. He wrapped his fingers into Mulcahy's hair, abandoned the chain, and held him close as first lips and then teeth explored his chest. Every time like the first, mix of sharp and soft, making him arch into the touch, curl his fist tight until Mulcahy's teeth on his nipples become too much and he let go, followed immediately by Mulcahy retreating, looking away, breathing deeply.

Hawkeye used the moment to look at the cross, laid there on the perfect skin of his lover. And the thoughts came unbidden, made him breathless and wild. Reckless.

He kissed the cross.

Mulcahy flinched, his nails dug deep into Hawkeye's nape and a formed _no_ breathed over his lips.

Hawkeye leaned back, but halted Mulcahy's hand as he tried to rip the cross off.

 _forgive me father for i have sinned_

"Please."

Mulcahy refused to look at him.

"Please. It's you. It's you and me, here, now and it's not the end of the world. It's good." He didn't mean to say it, didn't mean to think it because it was, it was the end of the world. Every time the tent seemed smaller and darker and the voices outside louder, more determined to find them and destroy them, and in the next second it would be the end of both of their lives, metaphorically and probably physically. But there it was anyway, hanging between them, something good, almost like hope.

Mulcahy swallowed, and let go of the cross. His fingers found Hawkeye's again, clinging as they kissed and kissed and kissed like they might never stop.

Then, _bless you, my child_ Hawkeye's memory flashed at him the image of Mulcahy doing the cross over his head, wishing him a safe journey and Hawkeye wanted it to stop even as his dick twitched and got harder.

He ended up on his back on the floor of the tent, dragging Mulcahy on top of him. The cross landed on his chest and he couldn't fully stop his moan this time. He wanted it there forever, on his skin, between them, belonging to both of them at once.

He started rocking his hips into the hard body above him, opened his legs wider and let them align perfectly. They were still trapped inside their trousers but it was okay, they didn't want it to end yet, moving slowly as though they were hoping someone would knock on the door so they could stay half satisfied and unfinished for the rest of the day.

The position gave his brain too much time to think as the cross rubbed against his chest. Even while he was looking at the beautiful face all he thought of was the black shirt, the collar, and him on his knees, face pressed against the trousers, trying to reach Mulcahy's skin through them.

He broke those thoughts with another kiss, licked deep inside, and rubbed their tongues together. It distracted him for a while.

Mulcahy rutting against him distracted him more, so much force behind every move, like he wanted to crawl inside.

Their whole bodies were pressed together now, sweaty and hot as they exchanged kisses and moans and sharp breaths.

Eventually it was too much, military issued underwear wasn't made for sex and Hawkeye reached between them, tugged clumsily on the button of Mulcahy's trousers until they opened.

Always, that first touch was a cross between _so wrong_ and _just perfect_. Mulcahy gasped, pushed his face into Hawkeye's chest, hiding again, but the cross still burned skin between them, reminding them who they were.

Next, Hawkeye went for his own trousers. Mulcahy rarely touched him there and never on purpose. He licked his hand and tried to hold them both, it was wet but sticky, uncomfortable with Mulcahy on top of him, but he held on anyway, skin against skin, perfect.

He felt soft licks on his chest, Mulcahy's mouth barely opened, just enough to taste. He wanted to press the head closer, wrap his fingers into the short hair, but that would mean letting go of Mulcahy's hand or letting go of their dicks in his hand and he couldn't do either.

He just threw his head back and arched a bit more into the touch, hoping. Mulcahy didn't react, but the movement made the cross slide against Hawkeye's chest and scratch teasingly against his nipple. That was enough to push him over the edge; he bit his lip and pushed up into his own hand quickly until he came over both of them, smudging the Father's black trousers.

Mulcahy let him breathe, tried to hide his face again, but this time Hawkeye didn't let it happen. He bent down just enough to nudge Mulcahy's cheek and angled them for a kiss. He was sated and calm and it made him notice the hunger with which Mulcahy kissed even more.

He started moving his hand around Mulcahy's cock without breaking the kiss, and then, for the first time, let go of the hand clutching his and wrapped it around the cross. Mulcahy flinched, moving his face away with wide eyes, but before he could say anything he was coming over Hawkeye's chest, mouth open but soundless.

They rested for just a moment, Mulcahy pressing his forehead into Hawkeye's shoulder.

"The cross..." Mulcahy started but probably didn't know how to finish.

"That's all me, don't worry."

"I see," Mulcahy said, like he understood, though Hawkeye knew he didn't.

He fingered the cross, still on his chest, and wondered if he would somehow be permanently entangled with the cross in Mulcahy's memory. He wouldn't mind, as long as it was a happy memory. But by the way Mulcahy slowly pulled the chain away from him and got up, still barely looking at him, he doubted.


End file.
